I saw it on facebook again today and it was like I went from being David Bruce Banner one minute to the Incredible Hulk the next. The trigger? Tadhg Harrington mentioned he was the victim of slow play. Aw crap I’m turning green with rage.
Christ almighty, I hate being stuck behind slow golfers. The way they smirk back at you from the green on a par three, that look of utter disdain on their face as you pace around the tee box. The way they mark a four inch putt, just to piss you off. They way they drop down onto one knee to check the line of that four inch putt, all for the benefit of driving you bloody insane.
You’re getting angry now, aren’t you? They’ve just spent ten minutes shuffling around tap-ins, and you’re about to blow a head gasket. “Come on to fluck lads.” They all stop and turn around. Oops! That hasn’t helped things.
And just when the flag is put back in and you think there’s an actual glimmer of hope of getting this bloody hole played today, you notice it. One of them has left his bag on the front left of the green, even though the feckin’ tee is way over behind the green on the right. Aw shite!
You watch him trudge slowly all the way across the front of the green to pick up the mouldy bag with ‘HIPPO’ on it. “Look at him he even can’t walk right lads.” All sense of normal human compassion and reasoning has now gone. The red mist has descended. He’s got those paedo glasses that go from clear to dark brown when the sun shines. Hang on, is that a friggin’ pair of jeans he’s wearing? It damn well is and the wet rough has caused the water to come all the way up to his knees like friggin’ capillary action we learned in school. And why is he wearing an office shirt out golfing even though its like minus two degrees? Jesus, I’m never putting my name on the timesheet behind tools like these again. You make bogey, it’s all his fault. “How am I supposed to get into a rhythm looking at that crap?”
Forty minutes and two holes later, all four of the buggers have hit balls into the water on front of the 10th green. No bloody surprise there. “Let’s play right up their holes lads, they’ll have to let us through.”
Paedo man has a fishing rod ball scooper thing. Imagine, he had to go into a shop and buy that thing. No bother to him, he’s thick enough to do it too. That’s like going into a restaurant and buying a bib. Bit defeatist. Worse still, all the rest are now gathered around him admiring how shaggin’ long it extends. It takes another age to scoop out all four Molitors but then, instead of walking around to the green, tinty specs with the scooper starts to do a forensic combing of the entire perimeter of the pond. “Which side is my heart lads, I’m having a feckin’ coronary here with the stress.”
He’s stopping every couple of seconds to extract another ball. Is he for real? He’s now revealing the real reason he came out here today and it’s not to bloody well play golf. It’s to collect balls from the pond. Pissing you off is just an added bonus. You’ve seen soldiers scan fields for landmines ten times quicker.
And he’s probably got the brand new Pro V1 you hit in there last week by now. The thought of that hayseed playing with your ball. It’s golf rape by a tinty paedo.
Aghhhhhhh! “Feck this, I’m going in lads, I haven’t a score anyway.”